


I See London, I see France

by mwc



Series: Nine Things To Do Today [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ezio makes a cameo, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 08:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19081693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwc/pseuds/mwc
Summary: Really they should hate each other, a Brit and a Frenchman, but that doesn't really stop them. Jacob can't resist a beautiful French lover in any regard. As for Arno, well, he just ended up caring too much for thestupide anglais.There is never enough JacobxArno love, so here's a minor contribution.Basically Who Does What prompts that I can't remember the source of. Really short, slice-of-life chapters





	1. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who tries to make the other breakfast,  
> And who tries to swallow it down for the sake of their lover

Strokes of brilliance do not strike him often. His sister would attest to this, likely pulling up an entire slideshow to present the world with his _lack_ of brilliance. Or, as she would put it, "utter bloody daftness to any sort of intelligence."

_But_ this _is pure gold,_ he swears to himself.

Untangling himself from the sheets is one story. Untangling himself from his slumbering boyfriend is another matter. The man is an angel, a masterpiece of heaven- unless you wake him up. Then even the devil is afraid.  
Somehow, the broader man succeeds in sliding his arm out from underneath the lithe figure, gingerly shifting the head of long brown hair from his chest to the pillows. Luckily their bed provides a cloud-like give, allowing the stouter man to escape unscathed.

By no means is Jacob Frye large, or one of the annoying muscle jocks who earns himself the nickname "Axeman" at the gym or something bloody stupid like that. He is perfectly content with his lean and toned form, tall but not lanky, broad but not bulky. A man of perfect ratio of strength and grace. Jacob pauses in his thoughts as he reaches for one of the pans hanging over the kitchen island. His boyfriend, Arno Victor Dorian, would receive the title of strongest while being the most graceful. Even in his most torn down and worn state of exhaustion, Arno keeps his shoulders back, his poise undefeated and unrelenting. But he’s delicate. Not sharp edges of a beefy man, nor the smooth curves considered more effeminate. A balance between the two: lithe, urbane, charming… 

Shaking his head, Jacob returns to the task at hand.

…

Lifting his head from the soft pillows, Arno immediately catches something amiss. Detective skills and intuition aren’t for nothing. He reevaluates the few seconds he has been awake. Soft pillows, not a packed chest. Chirping birds outside the window, not a steadily thrumming heartbeat in his ear. Warm blankets, not warm body.

Jacob is up. And he left Arno to wake on his own.

Forming a thin line with his lips, the furious boyfriend storms downstairs. Choice words not entirely in English leap like fire on his tongue. They’ve had this discussion. Jacob promised never to leave him alone in bed unless it was- an emergency. 

A sudden fear kicks in. Keen nose already picks up the scent of burning, and likely things that aren’t supposed to be burning. Set on high alert, Arno flies down the rest of the stairs, rounding the corner of the hallway and stepping into the kitchen to find chaos.

"Ah! Ahhhhh, Arno?" The overconfident, arrogant Brit smiles shyly and apologetically, still patting at a dying flame on the stove.

"Jacob?" Arno scoffs in disbelief, his French accent making the noise sound scornful.

"I thought I could…" Jacob shrugs, shifting the pan off of the burner. "Thought I could, ah… Bloody hell. I can’t cook." Throwing his hands up in defeat, the usually-suave man swallows his pride and moves to throw away the burnt breakfast. 

A deft hand catches his wrist before he can move. Arno’s thin, long fingers trail up his forearm, over the curve of his bicep, finally resting against the light facial hair at Jacob’s cheek.

What he thought was a rude awakening turned into the most hysterical instances of Jacob’s lapse in common sense. And he breaks.

At first confused, the concerned Brit holds the doubled-over Frenchman by the elbows, ensuring he won’t fall. Arno buries his face into Jacob’s bare chest, reining back his laughter.

"Arno? Are you sure you’re okay? I can-"

"_Non, non_. It is alright," Arno again catches Jacob’s hand. Large calloused palms press to smooth hands. "I am sure it is salvageable," Arno mutters, grabbing a fork from the drawer.

Both men hold their breath, as they both hold little faith in Jacob’s culinary skills. The French prove to be the better chefs anyway. And the French prove to be the harshest of culinary critics. Whatever Jacob attempted to make is a revolt, a disgrace to all food, a mockery of palatability. It takes all his willpower to swallow the meager bite and not hurl it into the sink. Still, as his stomach is forced to receive the attempt at breakfast, Arno shudders, briefly leaning towards the sink. For a long moment, he is certain that he is doomed to embarrass Jacob by heaving up the breakfast. Thankfully, the food remains set. Unfortunately, the taste does not.

Palm spreading across his lower back and rubbing comforting circles, Jacob watches over his ill boyfriend.

"There is that little coffee shop down the street…" Jacob offers, passing Arno a glass of water. Downing the whole glass, Arno nods.


	2. Radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who tries to sing along to the car radio,  
> And who tries to avoid the embarrassment in the passenger seat

It is the small things that Arno is thankful for. For one, he and Jacob share similar music tastes. Classical, or string oriented. Instrumentals mainly. Not any of that fake synthesized and electronic junk that people nowadays call popular. Both men agreed vehemently never to touch pop, rock, techno, or any sort of music like that. Jacob wouldn’t settle their pact unless they voted that the twangy American country music was banned too. Arno couldn’t agree more.

It is the simple things he is thankful for, but it’s also the tiny things that can aggravate. Any other couple would know that their significant other holds no musical talent, not even while singing in the car.

Jacob doesn’t understand the concept of poor singing.

Of course, the _stupide anglais_ has the most beautiful voice ever to grace humanity. His rich tone can fill a room, captivate an audience, and often draw the attention of women who don’t know he’s taken. Even then he can use his voice to seduce.

He should _not_ be using his voice to try to sing along to Beethoven. It simply does not work, no matter how beautiful the voice is. Jacob only has so much vocal range. Despite this, he sings - the highs, the lows, all of it. And Arno cowards in embarrassment in the passenger seat when other drivers give Jacob odd looks.


	3. Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who tries to have a relaxing day on the beach,  
> And who has to treat the other's inevitable sunburns

One of the many things that women swoon over Jacob for is his skin. Comparatively, the darker shade of white counts as a gorgeous tan in the drab streets of London, and likely due to his time outside doing various athletic activities. It is not uncommon to find Jacob shirtless, sweat glistening off of the muscular chest…

Clearing his throat, Arno focuses back on his suitcase. He had all of this planned out. A case of his leads him to Italy: a short hop, skip and a jump away from their temporary home just outside Paris. Dragging Jacob along would be a bore if not for an appealing incentive - the beach. Never one to turn down a chance to show off his body, the suave Brit happily signed up on the idea. But Arno won’t let Jacob out the door.

"It’s only a short stay, I won’t need any sunscreen," Jacob scoffs, attempting to step through the doorway. With his shorter frame, Arno effectively blocks the path by spreading out his arms. 

"_Non_. We are not leaving until you show me that you have packed it." Raised eyebrows dare Jacob to challenge him. If anyone knows Arno, they know not to go against his better judgement. Jacob has often proved that when he doesn’t listen to Arno, he ends up doing something stupid and getting himself into trouble. The annoyed Brit - more of a large child - turns back around, rummages in the bathroom, and returns with the low SPF sunscreen.

"_Mieux que rien_ ," the shorter man sighs, being lenient for once. Besides, they have ride to catch. 

Arno remains particularly adamant about applying the sunscreen. For the Frenchman, it is understandable. Paler than most even in France, the poor man would likely be set aflame if left unprotected in the sun too long. The idea of being fair skinned flies over Jacob’s head. Compared to the local Italians around them, the couple nearly blends into the sand.

"_Buongiorno, signori_ ," a lively Italian greets as they step foot on the beach. Social grace helps Jacob greet the man with equal warmth, resting his hand low on Arno’s back to encourage him to socialize. Though Jacob can understand the intimidation. The robust Italian matches Jacob in height and stature, if a little lighter. But bloody hell that olive skin is something of envy. Of course, it doesn’t help being on the beach, rendering the smouldering Italian shirtless. The Brit’s jaw tightens, causing his boyfriend to frown at Jacob’s sudden protective grasp around his waist.

"_Bonjour_ ," Arno manages to greet back. "I am Arno Dorian."

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze," the other replies, his tongue rolling his in the smooth language. The Italian offers his hand to shake. Jacob takes initiative to shake the hand first, a firm handshake that would warn anyone not to mess with him - or his boyfriend. 

"Jacob Frye. Nice to meet you, sir."

"Please, the pleasure is mine." Ezio chuckles, a pleasantly low tenor. He turns to Arno with a purr. "_Solo Parigi è degna di Roma_..."

"_Seule Rome est digne de Paris_." Arno picks up, recognizing the phrase, causing the both of them to clasp hands with a close sense of brotherhood. With a quick glance, the Italian catches the slight frown on the Londoner’s face.

"If I may," Ezio appeases. "You are a lucky man, Jacob." Brown eyes shift from Jacob, down to catch his hand on Arno’s hip, then up to Arno’s beautiful face. "_Hai un bella fidanzato_."

"Pardon?" Jacob asks, a tad more aggressive than necessary.

"A compliment, _signore_ ," Ezio reassures. Arno and Ezio exchange quick information - seeing as how Ezio so graciously offered his humble _palazzo_ for them to stay in - before the Frenchman grabs Jacob by the wrist and pulls him toward the beach. Finding a small plot to lay their towels takes no time. Eager, Arno starts to dart away towards the sea. Before he can take two steps, however, Jacob lifts his boyfriend’s small weight easily by the hips, carrying him against his will into the deep.

"Jacob don’t you dare-" The Brit’s only response is a low, dark chuckle. Forest green swim shorts soak in the hip-deep water before the mischievous man drops his boyfriend with a large splash. A blur of blue, white and red shorts, and Arno is behind Jacob, pulling him into the salty brine with him. Arno surfaces before Jacob, shaking his long brown hair from clinging to his back. The red tie he intended on wearing lies somewhere amongst their towels, but if Jacob’s hands at his waist has anything to say, Arno isn’t going back to shore anytime soon.

. . .

Buttoning up his navy-blue, silk vest, Arno patiently waits for Jacob to finish his shower. He ponders his reflection in the mirror before deciding to tie the thin red scarf under his collar. _Honestly,_ Arno shakes his head, _One would think I would take longer caring about my looks. Jacob is just vain to be spending that much time-_ The door clicks open just as Arno raises his hand to knock. He has to bite his lip to keep his jaw from dropping. Most days, Jacob wears nondescript t-shirt and pants. A few times he has dressed up in nicer pants and a button-down shirt. Seeing Jacob in a classy suit stops his heart.

Embroidered green vest covers a white collared shirt, red tie low and loose as to not cover the wide "v" of skin showing at his chest. Even in formal attire, the Brit does not shy from testing the boundaries of modesty. A matching red sash ties around his middle with three thin belts cinching the fabric tight around his form. A fitting, long black trench coat frames the ensemble, the patterned collar flaring out, the coattails reaching his knees. Black pants tuck into neat dark boots. On top of gelled back, well-combed hair rests a classy top hat. The purest form of British sophistication.

"Jacob, you look-" Arno breathes.

"-Horrific in comparison to your beauty," Jacob smoothly interrupts, placing a peck on Arno’s cheek. The red flush on his pale face is thankfully only a blush; it will surely fade. But Arno questions the pink tint hidden behind Jacob’s trimmed beard, also found at his neck under the collar. Now that he examines the Brit, Arno detects further traces of flushed skin.

"Arno? What are you doing? We have wonderful hosts, it would be rude to skip out on their meal to undress each other," the taunt rumbles as a chuckle in Jacob’s chest. Arno doesn’t listen, pulling at Jacob’s jacket. Resisting, Jacob keeps his coat firmly about his shoulders. But Arno can see the flaring red skin beneath the clothes. Jacob flinches when light fingers ghost over the raw skin. He keeps his eyes closed, head low. He _knows_ the look Arno will be wearing when he opens his eyes. Not disappointment or disapproval. Not patronizing. Amusement, head tilted up in a mock of "I told you so."

"Yes, I got sunburned," Jacob groans, "Yes, you told me so. Can we please just… worry about it _after_ dinner?" Amber eyes gleam when they meet resigned hazel ones.

"Will you let me treat it?" Arno gives Jacob that knowing smirk, the one that tells Jacob that he’s not going to like it, but has to do what Arno says nonetheless. Scooping the Frenchman into his arms, Jacob buries his face into the not-quite-as-pale-as-it-was neck.

"I promise."


	4. Cat Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who lays on the other's lap to sleep,  
> And who can't help but compare them to a sleepy kitten

He flops back on the couch with a resigned sigh. Head lolling over the armrest, arms flung to either side - one over the back of the couch, the other with knuckles brushing the floor - legs stretched to take up the rest of the available space. His personal coach, who also happens to be his very persistent twin sister, pushed the limits on every single muscle in his body. And they all scream in exhausted agony. Mouth gaping open as he moans, he attempts to win over the pitying attention of his boyfriend. Often, when he feels this dead tired, Arno will bring over a warm towel to relax his sore muscles, and occasionally his favourite tea and biscuits.

But not today. Instead, as Jacob sprawls across the length of the plush couch, the front door slams shut in contained fury. He lifts his head, concern pulling at his lips and brow. Arno has his moments of temper, impatience, and sometimes anger. But never does he slam doors, raise his voice, or lash out in any way. Something is wrong.

"Arno?" Jacob coos softly. The next thing he knows, the thinner man lays flat on top of him. Slipping his hips between Jacob’s legs, Arno folds his arms over the other’s broad chest and tucks his head. Within seconds, the Frenchman is unresponsive. Asleep. 

_Ah, a taxing day for both of us,_ Jacob deducts. Lifting one heavy arm from the floor, he carefully undoes the fine tie in Arno’s hair, threading his fingers through the silky dark brown locks. With a smile on his face, Jacob leans his head back against the arm of the couch, imagining Arno’s light sounds as purrs as they both drift off into sleep.


	5. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who rescues an abandoned pet off the street,  
> And who is unprepared for the sudden adoption

Sympathy pulled at his heart strings like a musician carefully tuning a piano. A delicate softness overcame him when his usually aloof hazel eyes meet with wounded orange ones. The poor creature bares scuff marks, leading him to believe the critter to be severely injured. He is no animal expert, but he is pretty sure bloating about its middle to be indicative of something really, _really_ bad. Gingerly taking the surprisingly heavy animal, he quickly makes a detour to the vet.

. . .

Perhaps he didn’t think this through. As he returns home with formal adoption papers and vet records, he realizes maybe he should warn his boyfriend. The poor animal was stray so he found no reason to _not_ keep her, but really, it would be up to whether she was welcomed in the house or not. Quickly speed dialing "Mon Cherry," he puts the phone to his ear. The soft ringing begins as he turns onto his street.

"_Bonjour_ ; this is Arno Dorian. I am unfortunately unable to receive your call at the moment. Please feel free to leave a message, I will be sure to respond as soon as I can." The pre-recorded message replays in summed up French. Biting his cheek, Jacob hangs up before the tone prompts to leave a message.

"Guess it will be a little surprise, then. Isn’t that right, little guy?" Jacob asks the little pet beside him in the passenger seat. The critter makes a little flick of the tongue. "You’re right. You do need a name," Jacob responds as if in conversation with the animal. He hums thoughtfully. "Think Arno would mind if I called you Èlise? Hah! No, you’re right, he would hate that. But you two have similarities. She has red hair, you are… red, sorta. No, no, no, you’re right. Arno is better at this sort of thing." Pulling into the garage, Jacob turns off the car, lifts the little cardboard box from the passenger seat, and uses his key to let himself in.

"Aaaaarno! I’m hooooome," Jacob chimes from the garage door. The clink of dishes and pans in the kitchen alerts Jacob of Arno’s whereabouts.

"You’re not usually home this late. I started dinner but- what is that?" Arno halts his rant to nod curiously at the little box. His focus shifts immediately back the food as Jacob brings the box to the coffee table. _Probably full of random trinkets,_ Arno tuts to himself, _Honestly, Jacob is like a greedy crow. A rook to the core._ Sitting on the edge of the couch, the Brit carefully edges his hand close to the pet’s nose. The vet told him that animals like to grow used to their owner’s presence and smell before leaping any further into bonding.

"Hypothetically," the voice from the living room draws out, "if you had a pet, what would you name it?"

"Him or her?" Arno responds automatically. Jacob smirks, taking this slip optimistically.

"Her."

"Color?"

"More or less red."

"Then I would think of _se leva-_ sorry, ‘Rose’ in English, unless- … _Jaaacob._" The man chuckles when his boyfriend’s voice turns accusing. He thinks he should be more careful, considering the knives are in the kitchen, where Arno’s voice drops warningly. "You didn’t get a _pet,_ did you?"

"She was laying on the side of the road-"

"Did you even think about what you were doing? Now we’re going to have to take care of it. Likely take it on walks - unless it’s a cat, then _you’re_ dealing with the box-"

"And she was hit by a car - or some cocks kicked her around - so I took her to the vet-"

"I can’t believe you, the most arrogant and self-centered man gets stopped by an injured stray-"

"They said I could keep her if I checked her out for injury and-"

"_QUEL EST CET ENFER_?!" The sudden yell causes Jacob to jump back, eyes wide, and defensively tuck Rose close to his chest in his cupped hands. The wooden spoon flings red sauce at Jacob as Arno wields it defensively, shaking slightly. Behind him, the water on the stove rises to a boil, but terrified amber eyes don’t dare leave the locked stare he has with the gleaming evil orange eyes.

"What did you- what?" Jacob stutters, lost at the sudden switch to French. For as much progress he has made in learning his boyfriend’s native language, he still gets easily lost when spoken quickly. Or in this case, yelled vehemently.

"_What sort of bloody hell is that?_" Arno repeats, taking a step back when Jacob steps forward. He would point out Arno’s humorous slip into British cursing if he wasn’t so concerned over Arno’s onset panic.

"A snake?" The innocent reply goes unheard as French vehemence flies from Arno’s mouth, shoving Jacob out of the kitchen and likely cursing at the time taken away from cooking.  
It isn’t until after a tersely silent meal does Arno speak again.

"You said you found it on the side of the road?"

"_Her-_ and her name _is_ Rose-" Jacob clarifies, letting the red snake coil on itself in the box. "And yes, I found her on the side of the road. Our eyes met and I just… _knew_ that I had to take her in." Shaking his head, Arno sits back in the lounge chair across from the couch.

"A snake, Jacob?" He sighs in disbelief. "You know you’re going to have to feed it live mice and the like, right?" At this, Jacob frowns. Perhaps Arno is right: he didn’t think this through entirely. He shrugs it off, resting his arm across the back of the couch, crossing his leg over his knee.

"It can’t be too bad."

"Then you feed it."

"Fine by me," the Brit shrugs again. It can’t be _that_ bad. He has seen worse blood and gore in his video games. Finally easing up on his stern resistance to his boyfriend, Arno lifts himself from the chair, sitting beside his love and leaning into the open arm. Gazing into the cardboard box, Arno frowns, this time in simple curiosity.

"Did the vet say anything about the bulging? I don’t believe snakes are supposed to bulge like that." With his head against Jacob’s chest, Arno feels the amused chuckle and shake of his shoulders. He leans away to stare seriously into Jacob’s eyes.

"Jacob?"

"I was wondering when you would ask," he replies, grinning at the most certainly not amused expression on his boyfriend’s face. Sobering his own expression, he rests a calming hand against Arno’s thigh. Arno’s brows knit in worry. The sudden shift to deadpan seriousness is uncharacteristic.

"Arno." Jacob commands his tone to be low and resolute. After all, this sort of announcement is no small matter for any couple. "She’s pregnant."

"Jacob!" Arno gasps, jaw dropping. "You can’t seriously-"

"And we’re keeping her. We can donate the babies back to the pet store, but we’re keeping Rosie." Shaking his head, Arno buries his face back into Jacob’s shoulder.

"You’re taking care of that too."

"Fair enough," Jacob murmurs into Arno’s hair. A devious thought strikes him, and he trails his finger lightly on Arno’s back, making the path winding and sinuous. In an instant, the flighty French leaps up, brushing off his back and swearing loudly in his foreign tongue. Jacob guffaws as Arno shakes off the intimated feel of the slithering snake.

First rule of keeping the snake as decreed by Arno: Don’t ever let it touch Arno without his explicit knowledge and consent.


	6. Treats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is dragged along on a walk in the park,  
> And who buys them both ice cream

Humid May air hangs on his cloak. A few scattered drops roll down his hood, dripping in front of his face. One narrowly misses his nose. He removes the gloves on his hands. With rain usually brings cooler drafts, but the end-of-Spring heat begins to set. Odd, considering the sparse clouds that threaten to leak at any given time. It still doesn’t hamper his mood for a cheery walk down the streets of Paris.

Vendors huddle under overhangs or giant umbrellas. Some prove to be smart with their covers, providing refuge from the light splatters of rain whilst also boasting their wares. Flashy canvas and bold fonts grab at passersby, most often the huddled up tourists. Arno scoffs. Tourists are his source of amusement. They never know where they’re going, they only want to see the Eiffel Tower, and often they get confused by the flow of traffic. And that is all assuming they learned basic French, enough to ask simple questions. A wide grin spreads across his face as a woman enunciated in slow English. Poor lady. By her loud, boisterous accent, he can identify her as the most common of wandering tourists - American. 

However, Arno finds himself in line behind the stentorian woman, seeing no other vendor of the sort. If only there was some way to break the language barrier...

"Do. You. Have. Rocky. Road." The woman repeats for the uptenth time.

"_Je ne sais pas ce que vous entendez à propos de la route_." The vendor shrugs defeated. "_Non. Anglais_."

"Pardon," Arno interrupts. He translates the woman’s request, "_Monsieur, avez-vous d'autres saveurs_?"

"_Non. Je ne sers pas les catastrophes culinaires que les concoctent Américains_."

"_Je suis d’accord. Madame_ ," Arno turns to address the woman, "the kind sir only offers these three flavours of ice cream." At least the woman had the decency to apologize for her troubles. He is not entirely sure the extra coin she handed him was of generosity or lack of understanding French to American currency ratio. Nonetheless, the vendor waves Arno off without charge on his two cones. Apparently the man deals with too many tourists and not enough translators. 

He would hardly call himself anything useful before he realizes he would make an effective translator. Fluent in English, raised with French, studied Spanish, he has mastered the three main international languages. Besides this, Arno doubts that many people boast their ability in Latin, but he takes quiet pride in his literacy in the dead language.

The Arc de Triomphe stands proudly above his head, and Arno sits on a nearby bench. Masterfully managing to balance two cones and a smartphone, Arno checks for any notification on his lover’s whereabouts. The haze of clouds thickens, the threat of rain still eminent. For the time being, Arno keeps his protective hood over his head. A frown finds his way on his face. _Jacob promised to meet here by now._

"Mind if I sit here?" A warm British tone asks, and Arno shifts to accommodate another man on the bench without a second thought. Not seeing the movement, he jumps when the newcomer steals one of his cones and wraps his other arm behind him on the bench.

"_Excusez-moi, as-tu-_ Oh, Jacob." Pressing a hand to his riled chest, the Frenchman turns his accusation into warm welcome.

"_Bonjour, mon amour_ ," Jacob winks. Light rain drops fall on his face, barely protected by the top hat. He dives into the cone of vanilla ice cream despite the rain. Arno can’t help but watch a dab of cream catch at the side of his lip, clinging onto the light facial hair until his tongue flicks to the side and licks it away. The enraptured man finds himself tracing his own lips with his tongue. Gazing of somewhere in the distance, Jacob pulls his tongue languidly over the scoop of ice cream. Flushing up to his ears, Arno turns away before his dreadfully-too-crafty mind comes up with things less innocent than enjoying ice cream.

"Not in the mood for ice cream?" Jacob offers, one bite away from being finished by the time Arno realizes he hasn’t taken a single lick. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Arno sets about enjoying his treat. 

That is, until Arno’s said dreadfully-too-crafty mind stirs up a brilliant idea. He grabs Jacob’s attention, seeming to offer the cone to the Brit but keeping his hand and attention close. Holding both the hand and the treat between them, Arno locks amber eyes with hazel, twisting tongue taking a long swipe as half-lidded eyes gleam wickedly. He is trying to make a point and he is making it clear. An accomplished smirk breaks across Arno’s face as he leaves Jacob with his ice cream in hand. 

Jacob swallows back the lump in his throat. Setting his jaw does nothing to quell the rise of heat to his cheeks. Hopefully tipping his hat down shields the embarrassed blush, or tells any onlookers to look away. Pointedly not looking at his boyfriend, the Englishman tries his best to force the thoughts out of his mind. The effort is in vain, for when Arno kisses his cheek just in front of his ear, he stiffens. A resolute comeback would settle the battle. And he smirks.

When Jacob mutters in a musky tone "I am sure there are more things to enjoy indoors back home," Arno is the one to flush. Taking the simple victory, Jacob prompts Arno to stand with him, stealing a long kiss from warm lips before leading his still-blushing boyfriend home.


	7. Memes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who tries to send the other memes or texts,  
> And who shuts their phone off so they don't get in trouble at work

Droll as he is, sometimes it is hard for Arno to take Jacob seriously.

Especially when the latter relentlessly sends the former text after text of useless cat memes.

Some are encouraging, like a cat with his paws raised with the caption "Believe." Others are absolutely useless. Cat after cat, Arno receives more than ten messages of various memes. One shows a cat laying on a glass table, the underside pressed flat, and it was deemed a "hovercat." Arno presses the silence button with as much force and aggression he can muster. Perhaps the tension would be received on the other end. With a long sigh, Arno knows that Jacob won’t stop unless he acknowledges the texts. One way, or another.

_-As much as I appreciate hundreds of cats popping up on my phone, I do not appreciate them while I am trying to work._

Typing with aggression lacks the sarcastic and crucially warning tone. The infamous Grumpy Cat responds.

_-No one appreciates funny cat memes? GOOD._

"Mr. Arno?" His client pulls him back to reality. "How goes your search?"

"Fine, fine," Arno responds pleasantly, waving a dismissive hand. "A little hung up on a curious piece of evidence here, but I am making progress." The man is satisfied with this excuse. Examining the disheveled appearance of the room again, noting the splotches of blood and the culprit kitchen knife, Arno attempts to focus back on his job.

Humouring Jacob just once more, he flicks a glance at the most recent text. A white kitten with a line of black fur under his eye, suspiciously replicating Arno’s scar, wears a photoshopped monocle and a pipe hangs from its mouth. "One does not simply disturb Detective Armeow."

He shuts his phone off without a second thought.


	8. Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who loses their jacket in their shared laundry,  
> And who will never give it back

His wardrobe has two halves. Casual, around-the-house kind of attire takes up the left side: t-shirts and comfortable pants, often with the most interesting of graphics. His particularly favourite one sports the words "Keep Calm And Drink Tea." In the other half of the wardrobe hangs formal yet sexy outfits that are guaranteed to turn all the heads in the area. He doesn’t like to boast, but puffing out his chest helps add to the moxy beneath bewitching silk and cotton. Smooth and suave, Jacob can capture the attention of anyone he wants, even without the fancy clothes. But let it be known that Jacob is one to overdress for the occasion.

Sifting through his more casual outfits, he comes across a misplaced jacket. Surely it belongs with his formal wear. The crisp edges, buttons, and hood make the blue jacket seem both fashionable and useful. Curious. He doesn’t recall ever getting this jacket. He knows every combination of shirts, vests, ties, and blazers possible in his outfits, for he has tried them all. This blue one simply does not fit.

But it might fit him. 

The sleeves fit snug over his strong arms. He buttons only two of the dark fasteners before realizing the open style of the jacket - and the poor fabric would’ve ripped if he tried buttoning it around his muscular chest. Pockets line the inside, and the hood slips over his head with ease. Concealing his features, the hood leaves him in shadow while granting him a wide field of vision. Seeing but not seen. This strikes him most out of all the peculiarities of the mysterious jacket. He would never want to hide his gorgeous features. Nor would he have any use of stealth. Only his detective boyfriend Arno would-

As soon as it hits him, Jacob laughs at himself. In brief retrospect, the mystery of the jacket doesn’t seem so mysterious. Of course Arno would wear something more tactical than fashionable, but still keep his look classy. It also explains the close fit around Jacob’s form. Though strong, Arno’s form is slimmer, his lean muscles less pronounced. Jacob reluctantly pulls off the jacket. From within the hood, he captured the warmth and slight, sweet musk of his lover. Raising the jacket to his face gives him another whiff of the soft smell. 

When he blinks his hazel eyes back into focus, he finds himself staring at a blank spot in his wardrobe. Instantly, he feels offset, like someone kicked the back of his knees and pulled the rug from beneath his feet simultaneously. It’s missing. His most prized article of clothing. Gone.  
But logically, there can only be one culprit.

A thought pops into his head, a wry smile forming on his lips. Pulling the jacket back on over his dark shirt - a black t-shirt with a tattered French flag waving over the caption "RÉVOLUTION" \- grabbing a little "gift," and hiding underneath the hood, Jacob seeks out his boyfriend.

…

With how particular his lover can be with his outfits, Arno has all the right to be suspicious. There, hanging in his closet, is Jacob’s beloved top hat. This sends up a few red flags. First, why is one of Jacob’s most prized possession in his closet? Second, how has neither of them noticed? The strangeness of it all continues to mount as Arno realizes that his own favourite article of clothing is missing. He could have sworn he hung it up just a few days ago. And he wouldn’t ever misplace his jacket. It’s not just to keep him warm, it keeps his identity concealed when he needs to be inconspicuous. It is vital. It is gone.

And there is only one reasonable suspect.

He quickly fixes his hair, pulling it loosely over his shoulder and retying the red ribbon. Then Arno places the top hat on top, like a delicate garnish on his finest dish. Deciding to act the part, he rolls his shoulders back, puffs out his chest a bit, and sets off to find Jacob.

…

It doesn’t take long for the two of them to run into each other. Literally. Having been under the hood, Jacob didn’t catch the quick motion of Arno stepping into the hallway. Having been looking down as he buttoned up his vest, Arno didn’t see Jacob until he ran into his solid form. Meeting each other’s gaze, they become apprehensive. 

A sly smirk graces Jacob’s lips as he accuses, "My hat."

"My jacket," Arno frowns in return, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you really shouldn’t be wearing it. You might tear it."

"Not until I have my hat. I’ve been missing that for a week now." His large hand swipes at air as Arno hops backwards. Holding out his own hand, Arno beacons for his jacket.

"Six days," the shorter man corrects, "And I’ve been looking for my jacket for ten." The two hold an intense staring contest until Jacob finally sighs. Starting to pull off the jacket, Jacob guises his action smoothly, swiping his top hat as he slides the jacket off his other arm, passing it to Arno. An eye for an eye exchange. 

"Thank you, _mon amour_. That wasn’t so difficult," Arno teasingly scolds. He has less than a second to react as Jacob grabs him by the collar and pulls him into his chest for a slow, passionate kiss.

The cool tickle at his neck shocks him into oblivion. With a shriek-ish yelp, Arno throws his jacket off. Jacob catches his reclaimed prize midair. As he fits the thin, hooded coat back on, a line of slithering red loosely hangs over Jacob’s shoulders. The Brit rewards the snake with affectionate petting for its role in the thievery. Arno bores a heated glare into the cold-blooded reptile, which flicks its tongue out mockingly. _Fine,_ Arno resolves with a huff, _I don’t want my favourite jacket back anyway. Not if that_ thing _is going to be in it._


	9. Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who falls off the couch and hurts themselves,  
> And who is torn between apologizing and laughing

Once again his top hat is stolen. Once again it is Arno who stole it. The smaller man darts and dashes around their house, avoiding Jacob and putting furniture between them. Most of the larger man’s moves are hindered by the obstacles. But Arno didn’t bet on Jacob dive bombing the couch.   
Throwing himself over the back, Jacob snatches a handful of Arno’s shirt, untucking it from the sleek black dress pants and causing the wearer to stumble backwards. Conveniently, the smaller man falls into the broader man’s embrace. Jacob holds fast to his prize.

"I thought," the Brit purrs low in Arno’s ear, "that I explicitly mentioned that it’s _my hat._ And it is _not_ to be stolen." Stroking his hand down Arno’s side to his hip earns him a reciprocated touch to his thigh.

"You still have my jacket from when the snake scared me out of it." Jacob doesn’t listen to Arno’s lighthearted rant. Shoving his boyfriend back on the couch, Jacob lays Arno beneath him - broad chest hovering an inch above the lithe form, slender hips straddled between long legs, long hair tossed on the arm of the couch. Gazing into half lidded amber eyes, Jacob exhales a long sigh. Arno’s thin fingers pull at Jacob’s collar, bringing their chests together, feeling the thrum of their hearts against each other’s chest. 

He gives in at the pout in Jacob’s eyes. Shoving the top hat on top of the Brit’s head, he fits it on roughly, messing up his hair.

"Hey! I worked bloody hard on my hair-" He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, but Jacob decides not to complain about the suddenness of the kiss, nor the ploy that was used to get it. Arno’s slender arms wrapping around his shoulders, Jacob lets his weight pin his boyfriend to the couch. He smirks into his lover’s lips. He knows Arno hates it when he uses his physical advantages so blatantly. The moans Jacob pulls from Arno are worth it. Moving his lips against Jacob’s, Arno returns the favour and receives vengeance; Jacob growls low, causing Arno’s insides to flutter delightfully. Their need for each other’s lips rivals greatly against their need for oxygen. With a gasp, they separate.

"Is that why they name it after you?"

"Pardon?" Opening his eyes and narrowing them curiously, Arno forces his mind to focus closer on Jacob’s words.

"The French Kiss. Do they call it that because the French created it? Or are you guys the best at it?" Jacob frowns thoughtfully at his beautiful foreigner. Though, being a Brit in France, he briefly wonders who is really the foreigner. Arno’s warm chuckle brings Jacob back.

"_On va voir_ ," are Arno’s last words. Crushing his lips to Jacob’s, he attacks. Hazel eyes widen at the fiery passion unleashed by the docile man. Eyelids fluttering shut, Jacob struggles to keep from melting into a mindless mush. That becomes infinitely more difficult when a smooth tongue flicks against his lips. As Arno drags the tip of his tongue across Jacob’s delicious lips, a long, low groan rakes through the usually dominant partner. Jacob quickly becomes submissive, allowing the tongue to slip into his opening mouth.

Many women he had teased or been teased with little flicks of the tongue. Often the classier ladies found the exchange of saliva disgustingly unsanitary. This - _oh this_ \- is nothing compared to any of those fleeting kisses.

Invasive tongue feels like cream in his mouth. The rough top side grazes his teeth, slipping further and tasting his cheeks, roof of his mouth, his- Jacob shudders when the smooth underside of Arno’s tongue meets his taste buds. Swirling his tongue, he spurs Jacob into a dance, a challenge, a war. Jacob reclaims lost ground before he realizes that he’s fighting back. Forcing Arno into submission, the Brit experiments the taste of the Frenchman’s mouth. If his eyes could roll back further in his head, they would. 

Intoxicated off of the taste and feel of the kiss, Jacob barely acknowledges the fingers slipping under his loose shirt. But he doesn’t miss the playful touches at his belt. Doesn’t miss the increasing eagerness in Arno’s kiss. With his attention rooted to the passion in the kiss, however, he doesn’t notice Arno shifting beneath him. Consequently, he doesn’t notice when his balance becomes off center.

The ground meets the back of his head hard, jarring his brain back into painful awareness. His groan is no longer a response to pleasure. Sitting up on his elbows, Jacob quickly finds his bearings in the situation. Arno kneels next to him, fingers running through ruffled hair to find any potential bumps on his skull. Quick murmurs of apologies and concern shift between French and English in his state of worry. 

And Jacob laughs.

Confusion flights on Arno’s features before a soft kiss is pressed to his lips. Not one to be forced back so easily, the lithe figure pins the large, shaking shoulders to the floor, demanding submission and calm. But Jacob has other plans. Large palm forcing Arno’s head to his, Jacob sparks another deep kiss, not holding anything back. And Arno joins him, stifling the lingering laughter with his own smirk into the kiss.


End file.
